Rare peals of delicate pleasure,
Thrilling the soul, tho’ vast and whole
Its fullness mocks all measure?
’Tis as a word inwardly stirred,
As Memory subtly lingers
O’er Hours fled by the Noon, that lie
Past touch of confident fingers,
Yet that upcall the bowered hall,
The voice of silent singers.
Then say, oh Mage of antique age,